THE LADY OF THE GREAT NORTH ROAD
It occurred about a month after my return from Germany. A strange
affair, assuredly; and stranger still that my life should have been
spared to relate it.
After luncheon at the Trocadero I mounted into the car, a new forty
six-cylinder "Napier" that we had purchased only a week before, to drive
to Barnack, an old-world Northamptonshire village near Stamford, where I
had to meet the audacious rascal Count Bindo. From Piccadilly Circus,
I started forth upon my hundred-mile run with a light heart, in keen
anticipation of a merry time. The Houghs, with whom Bindo was staying,
always had gay house-parties, for the Major, his wife, and Marigold, his
daughter, were keen on hunting, and we usually went to the meets of the
Fitzwilliam, and got good runs across the park, Castor Hanglands, and
the neighbourhood.
Through the grey, damp afternoon I drove on up the Great North Road,
that straight, broad highway which you who motor know so well. Simmons,
Bindo's new valet, was suffering from neuralgia; therefore I had left
him in London, and, sitting alone, had ample time for reflection.
The road surface was good, the car running like a clock, and on the
level, open highway out of Biggleswade through Tempsford and Eaton Socon
along to Buckden the speed-indicator was registering thirty-five and
even forty miles an hour. I was anxious to get to Barnack before dark;
therefore, regardless of any police-traps that might be set, I "let her
rip."
The cheerless afternoon had drawn to a close, and rain had begun to
fall. In a week or ten days we should be on the Riviera again, amid
the sunshine and the flowers; and as I drew on my mackintosh I pitied
those compelled to bear the unequal rigour of the English winter. I
was rushing up Alconbury Hill on my "second," having done seventy
miles without stopping, when of a sudden I felt that drag on the
steering-wheel that every motorist knows and dreads. The car refused
to answer to the wheel--there was a puncture in the near hind tyre.
For nearly three-quarters of an hour I worked away by the light of one
of the acetylene head-lamps, for darkness had now fallen, and at last I
recommenced to climb the hill and drop down into Sawtry, the big French
lamps illuminating the dark, wet road.
About two miles beyond Sawtry, when, by reason of the winding of the
road, I had slackened down to about fifteen miles an hour, I came to
cross-roads and a sign-post, against which something white shone in the
darkness. At first I believed it to be a white dog, but next moment I
heard a woman's voice hailing me, and turning, saw in the lamp-light as
I flashed past, a tall, handsome figure, with a long dark cloak over a
light dress. She raised her arms frantically, calling to me. Therefore
I put down the brakes hard, stopped, and then reversed the car, until
I came back to where she stood in the muddy road.
The moment she opened her mouth I recognised that she was a lady.
"Excuse me," she exclaimed breathlessly, "but would you do me a great
favour--and take us on to Wansford--to the railway?" And looking, I made
out that she held by the hand a fair-haired little lad about seven years
of age, well dressed in a thick overcoat and knitted woollen cap and
gloves. "You will not refuse, will you?" she implored. "The life of a
person very dear to me depends upon it." And in her voice I detected an
accent by which I knew she was not English.
Seeing how deeply in earnest she was, and that she was no mere wayfarer
desirous of a "lift," I expressed my readiness to do her a favour, and,
getting down, opened the door of the _tonneau_, removed the waterproof
rug, and assisted the little lad and herself to get in.
"Ah, sir, this kindness is one for which I can never sufficiently thank
you. Others may be able to render you some service in return," she said,
"but for myself I can only give you the heartfelt thanks of a distressed
woman."
In her refined voice there was a ring of deep earnestness. Who could she
be?
The hood of her heavy, fur-lined cape was drawn over her head, and in
the darkness I could not distinguish her features. The little boy
huddled close to her as we tore on towards Wansford Station, her
destination, fifteen miles distant. The ceaseless rain fell heavier as
we entered the long, old-world village of Stilton, and noticing they
had no mackintoshes, I pulled up before the "Bell," that well-known inn
of the coaching days where the York coaches changed horses.
"You are not surely going to make a stop here, are you? No one must see
us. Let us go on!" she urged in apprehension.
"But you can't go through this storm," I said. "No one shall see you.
There is a little sitting-room at the side that we may have until the
rain has ceased." And then, with apparent reluctance, she allowed me to
lead her and the boy through the old stone hall and into the little,
low, old-fashioned room, the window of which, with its red blind, looked
out upon the village street.
As she seated herself in the high-backed arm-chair beside the fire, her
dark, refined face was turned towards me, while the little lad stood
huddled up against her, as though half afraid of me. That she was a lady
was at once apparent. Her age was about twenty-two, and her countenance
one of the most beautiful that I had ever gazed upon. Her dark, luminous
eyes met mine with an expression half of innate modesty, half of fear.
The white hand lying in her lap trembled, and with the other she stroked
the child's head caressingly.
She had unhooked her dripping cloak, and I saw that beneath she wore a
well-cut travelling-gown of pale-grey cloth that fitted admirably, and
showed off her neat figure to perfection. Her dress betrayed her foreign
birth, but the accent when she spoke was only very slight, a rolling of
the "r's," by which I knew that she was French.
"I'm so afraid that someone may see me here," she said, after a slight
pause.
"Then I take it, mademoiselle, that you are leaving the neighbourhood in
secret?" I remarked in French, with some suspicion, still wondering who
she might be. The boy was certainly not her child, yet he seemed to
regard her as his guardian.
"Yes, m'sieur," was her brief reply; and then in French she said, after
a pause, "I am wondering whether I can trust you further."
"Trust me?" I echoed. "Certainly you can, mademoiselle." And taking out
a card, I handed it to her, declaring my readiness to serve her in any
way in my power.
She was silent for some moments.
"To-morrow, or the next day, there will be a sensation in the
neighbourhood where I joined you," she said at last.
"A mystery, you mean?" I exclaimed, looking straight into her handsome
face.
"Yes," she answered in a deep, hoarse voice. "A mystery. But," she added
quickly, "you will not prejudge me until you know--will you? Recollect
me merely as an unhappy woman whom you have assisted, not as----" She
sighed deeply, without concluding the sentence.
I saw that her splendid eyes were filled with tears--tears of regret, it
seemed.
"Not as what?" I inquired softly. "May I not at least know your name?"
"Ah!" she said bitterly. "Call me Clotilde, if you like. The name will
be as good as any other--until you know the truth."
"But, mademoiselle, you are in distress, I see. Cannot I do anything
else for you now than merely dropping you at the roadside station? I am
on my way to Stamford."
"No," she sighed; "you can do nothing more at present. Only deny that
you have ever met me."
Her words puzzled me. At one moment I wondered if she were not some
clever woman who was abducting the lad, and by whose plausible tale I
was being led into rendering her assistance. And yet as I stood with my
back to the fire gazing at her as she sat, I recognised a something
about her that told me she was no mere adventuress.
Upon her finger was a magnificent ring--a coronet of fine diamonds that
flashed and sparkled beneath the lamp-light, and when she smiled at me
her face assumed a sweet expression that held me in fascination.
"Cannot you tell me what has occurred?" I asked at last, in a quiet,
earnest voice. "What is the nature of the sensation that is imminent?"
"Ah no!" she answered hoarsely. "You will know soon enough."
"But, mademoiselle, I confess I should like to meet you again in London,
and offer you my services. In half an hour we shall part."
"Yes, we shall part; and if we do not meet again I shall always remember
you as one who performed one of the greatest services a man can perform.
To-night, m'sieur, you have saved my life--and _his_," she added,
pointing to the little lad at her side.
"Saved your lives? How?"
"You will know one day," was her evasive reply.
"And who is he?"
"I regret that I am not permitted to tell you," she answered.
At that instant heavy footsteps sounded in the hall, and gruff voices
exchanged greetings.
"Hark!" she gasped, starting to her feet in alarm. "Is the door locked?"
I sprang to it, and, as the waiting-maid had left it slightly ajar, I
could see the new-comers. I closed it, and slid the bolt into its
socket.
"Who are they?" she inquired.
"Two men in dark overcoats and soft felt hats. They look like
foreigners."
"Ah! I know!" she gasped, terrified, her face blanched in an instant.
"Let us go! They must not see me! You will help me to escape, won't you?
Can I get out without them recognising me?"
Was it possible that she had committed some crime, and they were
detectives? Surely this adventure was a strange and mysterious one.
"Remain here," I exclaimed quickly. "I'll go out and prepare the car.
When all is ready, I will keep watch while you and the boy slip out."
I went forth into the pelting rain, took off the rugs from the seats,
and started the motor. Then returning, and finding no one in the
passage--the two men having evidently passed on into the tap-room--I
beckoned to her, and she and the lad stole softly along and out into the
roadway.
In a moment they were both in the car, and a few seconds later we were
tearing along the broad road out of Stilton village at a pace that might
have cost me a five-pound fine.
What was the forthcoming "sensation"? Why was she flying from the two
strangers?
She feared we might be followed, therefore I decided to drive her to
Peterborough. We tore on through the biting wind and driving rain, past
Water Newton and Orton, until we drew up at the Great Northern Station
at Peterborough, where she descended, and for a moment held my hand in
a warm grasp of heartfelt thankfulness.
"You must thank this gentleman," she said to the lad. "Recollect that
to-night he has saved your life. They meant to kill you."
"Thank you, sir," said the little lad simply, holding out his hand.
When they had gone I remounted and drove away to Barnack, utterly
dumbfounded. The fair stranger, whoever she was, held me in fascination.
Never in all my life had I met a woman possessed of such perfect grace
and such exquisite charm. She had fled from her enemies. What startling
event had occurred that evening to cause her and the lad to take to the
road so ill-prepared?
What was the "sensation" which she had prophesied on the morrow? I
longed for day to dawn, when I might learn the truth.
Yet though I chatted with the grooms and other outdoor servants at
Barnack during the next day, I heard nothing.
Over the dinner-table that evening, however, old Colonel Cooper, who had
driven over from Polebrook, near Oundle, related to the guests a strange
story that he had heard earlier in the day.
"A mysterious affair has happened over at Buckworth, near the Great
North Road, they say," he exclaimed, adjusting his monocle and
addressing his hostess and Bindo, who sat on her right. "It seems that a
house called 'The Cedars,' about a mile out of the village, has been
rented furnished by some foreigners, a man named Latour and his wife
and son, whose movements were rather suspicious. Yesterday they received
three visitors, who came to spend a week; but just before dinner one of
the servants, on entering the drawing-room, was horrified to find both
her master and mistress lying upon the floor dead, strangled by the
silken cords used to loop up the curtains, while the visitors and the
little boy were missing. So swiftly and quietly was it all done," he
added, "that the servants heard nothing. The three visitors are
described as very gentlemanly-looking men, evidently Frenchmen, who
appeared to be on most intimate terms of friendship with their hostess.
One of them, however, is declared by the groom to be a man he had met in
the neighbourhood two days before; therefore it would seem as though the
affair had been very carefully planned."
"Most extraordinary!" declared Bindo, while a chorus of surprise and
horror went around the table. "And the boy is missing with the
assassins?"
"Yes; they have apparently taken him away with them. They say that
there's some woman at the bottom of it all--and most probably," sniffed
the old Colonel. "The foreigners who live here in England are mostly a
queer lot, who've broken the laws of their own country and efface their
identity here."
I listened at the open door with breathless interest as the old fellow
discussed the affair with young Lady Casterton, who sat next him, while
around the table various theories were advanced.
"I met the man Latour once--one day in the summer," exclaimed Mr.
Molesworth, a tall, thin-faced man, rector of a neighbouring parish. "He
was introduced to me at the village flower-show at Alconbury, when I was
doing duty there. He struck me as a very pleasant, well-bred man, who
spoke English perfectly."
I stood in the corridor like a man in a dream. Had I actually assisted
the mysterious woman to abduct the child? Every detail of my adventure
on the previous night arose vividly before me. That she had been aware
of the terrible tragedy was apparent, for without doubt she was in
league with the assassins. She had made me promise to deny having seen
her, and I ground my teeth at having been so cleverly tricked by a
pretty woman.
Yet ought I to prejudge her when still ignorant of the truth, which she
had promised to reveal to me? Was it just?
Next day, making excuse that I wished to test the car, I ran over to the
sleepy little village of Buckworth, which lay in a hollow about two
miles from the sign-post where I had been stopped by Clotilde. "The
Cedars" was a large, old-fashioned house, standing away from the village
in its own grounds, and at the village inn, where I called, I learned
from the landlord many additional details of how the three mysterious
visitors had arrived in a station-fly from Huntingdon, how eagerly Mr.
Latour had welcomed them, and how they had disappeared at nightfall,
after accomplishing their object.
"I hear it said that a woman is at the bottom of it all," I remarked.
"Of course we can't say, sir," he replied; "but a little while ago Mr.
Latour was seen several times by men working in the fields to meet, down
at Alconbury Brook, a rather handsome, dark young lady, and walk with
her."
Was that lady Clotilde? I wondered.
The inquest, held two days later, revealed nothing concerning the
antecedents of the Latours, except that they had taken "The Cedars"
furnished a year before, and very rarely received visitors. Mr. Latour
was believed to be French, but even of that nobody was certain.
A week afterwards, after taking Bindo up to Nottingham, I returned to
London, and watched daily for some communication, as Clotilde had
promised. Weeks passed, but none came, and I gradually became more and
more convinced that I had been the victim of an adventuress.
One afternoon, however, I received at my rooms in Bloomsbury a brief
note in a woman's handwriting, unsigned, asking me to call at an address
in Eccleston Street, Pimlico, that evening, at half-past nine. "I desire
to thank you for your kindness to me," was the concluding sentence of
the letter.
Naturally, I kept the appointment, and on ringing at the door was shown
up by a man-servant to a sitting-room on the first floor, where I stood
prepared again to meet the woman who held me entranced by her beauty.
But instead of a woman there appeared two dark-faced, sinister-looking
foreigners, who entered without a word and closed the door behind them.
I instantly recognised them as those I had seen in the passage of the
"Bell" at Stilton.
"Well? So you have come?" laughed the elder of the two. "We have asked
you here because we wish to know something." And I saw that in his hand
he held some object which glistened as it caught my eye. It was a plated
revolver. I had been trapped!
"What do you want to know?" I inquired, quickly on the alert against the
pair of desperate ruffians.
"Answer me, Mr. Ewart," said the elder of the two, a man with a grey
beard and a foreign accent. "You were driving an automobile near
Alconbury on a certain evening, and a woman stopped you. She had a boy
with her, and she gave you something--a packet of papers, to keep in
safety for her. Where are they? We want them."
"I know nothing of what you are saying," I declared, recollecting
Clotilde's injunction. "I think you must be mistaken."
The men smiled grimly, and the elder made a signal, as though to
someone behind me, and next instant I felt a silken cord slipped over my
head and pulled tight by an unseen hand. A third man had stepped
noiselessly from the long cupboard beside the fireplace, to which my
back had been turned.
I felt the cord cutting into my throat, and tried to struggle and shout,
but a cloth was clapped upon my mouth, and my hands secured by a second
cord.
"Now," said the elder man, "tell us the truth, or, if not, you die. You
understand? Where is that packet?"
"I know nothing of any packet," I gasped with great difficulty.
"It's a lie! She gave it to you! Where did you take her to?"
I was silent. I had given my promise of secrecy, and yet I was entirely
helpless in their unscrupulous hands. Again and again they demanded the
papers, which they said she had given me to keep for her, and my denial
only brought upon me the increased torture of the cord, until I was
almost black in the face, and my veins stood out knotted and hard.
I realised, to my horror, that they intended to murder me, just as they
had assassinated Latour and his wife. I fought for life, but my
struggles only tightened the cord, and thus increased my agony.
"Tell us where you have put those papers," demanded the younger of the
villainous, black-eyed pair, while the third man held me helpless with
hands of steel. "Where is the boy?"
"I have no idea," I replied.
"Then die," laughed the man with the grey beard. "We have given you a
chance of life, and you refuse to take it. You assisted her to escape
and you will share the fate of the others."
I saw that to save myself was impossible, but with a superhuman effort I
succeeded in slipping the noose from my hands and hooking my fingers in
the cord around my throat. The fellow behind placed his knee in my back,
and drew the cord with all his might to strangle me; but I cried
hoarsely for help, and clung to the fatal cord.
In an instant the two others, joined by a fourth, fell upon me, but by
doing so the cord became loosened, and I ducked my head. For a second my
right hand was freed, and I drew from my belt the long Italian knife
which I often carry as a better weapon in a scrimmage than a revolver,
and struck upward at the fellow who had sentenced me to death. The blade
entered his stomach, and he fell forward with an agonised cry. Then
slashing indiscriminately right and left, I quickly cleared myself of
them. A revolver flashed close to me, but the bullet whizzed past, and
making a sudden dash for the door I rushed headlong down the stairs and
out into the Buckingham Palace Road, still holding my knife, my hands
smeared with the blood of my enemies, and the cord still around my
neck.
I went direct to the police-station, and within five minutes half a
dozen constables were on their way round to the house. But on arrival
they found that the men, notwithstanding their severe wounds, had fled,
fearing the information I should give. The owner of the house knew
nothing, save that he had let it furnished a fortnight before to the
grey-bearded man, who had given the name of Burton, although he was a
foreigner.
The shock had upset my nerves considerably, but, accompanied by Blythe
and Bindo, I drove the car down to Dover, took her across to Calais, and
then drove across France to Marseilles, and along the Riviera to Genoa
and Pisa, and on to Florence--a delightful journey, which I had
accomplished on three previous occasions, for we preferred the car to
the stuffy _wagon-lit_ of the Rome express.
Times without number I wondered what was the nature of those documents,
and why the gang desired to obtain possession of them. But it was all a
mystery, inscrutable and complete. And I told the Count nothing.
Our season at Florence was a gay one, and there were many pleasant
gatherings at Bindo's villa. The season was, however, an empty one as
far as _coups_ were concerned. The various _festas_ had succeeded one
another, and the month of May, the brightest and merriest in Italy, was
nearly at an end, when one afternoon I was walking in the Cascine, the
Hyde Park of the Florentines, idly watching the procession of carriages,
many of whose fair occupants were known to me. Of a sudden there passed
a smart victoria-and-pair, among the cushions of which lolled the figure
of a well-dressed woman.
Our eyes met. In an instant the recognition was mutual, and she gave an
order to stop. It was the sweet-faced wayfarer of the Great North
Road--the woman who had enchanted me!
I stood in the roadway, hat in hand, as Italian etiquette requires.
"Ah! I am so pleased to meet you again," she said in French. "I have
much to tell you. Can you call on me--to-night at seven, if you have no
prior engagement? We have the Villa Simoncini, in the Viale. Anyone will
direct you to it. We cannot talk here."
"I shall be delighted. I know the villa quite well," was my answer; and
then, with a smile, she drove on, and somehow I thought that the idlers
watching us looked at me strangely.
At seven o'clock I was conducted through the great marble hall of the
villa, one of the finest residences on the outskirts of Florence, and
into the beautiful salon, upholstered in pale-green silk, where my
pretty companion of that exciting run on the Great North Road rose to
greet me with eager, outstretched hand; while behind her stood a tall,
white-headed, military-looking man, whom she introduced as her father,
General Stefanovitch.
"I asked you here for seven," she said, with a sweet smile; "but we do
not dine until eight, therefore we may talk. How fortunate we should
meet to-day! I intended to write to you."
I gathered from her subsequent conversation that we might speak frankly
before her father, therefore I described to her the exciting adventure
that had happened to me in Eccleston Street, whereupon she said--
"Ah! it is only to-day that I am able to reveal to you the truth,
relying upon you not to make it public. The secret of the Latours must
still be strictly kept, at all hazards."
"What was their secret?" I inquired breathlessly.
"Listen, and I will tell you," she said, motioning me to a seat and
sinking into a low lounge-chair herself, while the General stood astride
upon the bear-skin stretched before the English fire-grate. "Those men
sought the life of one person only--the boy. They went to England to
kill him."
"And would have done so, Clotilde, had you not saved him," declared her
father.
"It was not I," she said quickly. "It was Mr. Ewart, who snatched us
from them. They were following, and we both should have shared the fate
of the Latours had he not taken us up and driven us away. The thanks of
the State are due to Mr. Ewart." And at that moment the little lad
entered shyly, and, walking towards her, took her hand.
"The State--what do you mean?" I asked, puzzled.
"The truth is this," she said, smiling. "Little Paul, here, lived in
England incognito as Paul Latour, but he is really His Royal Highness
the Crown Prince Paul of Bosnia, heir to the throne. Because there was a
conspiracy in the capital to kill him, he was sent to England in secret
in the care of his tutor and his wife, who took the name of Latour,
while he passed as their son. The revolutionists had sworn to kill the
King's son, and by some means discovered his whereabouts in England;
whereupon four of them were chosen to go there and assassinate him. By
good fortune I learnt the truth, and as maid-of-honour to the Queen
resolved to say nothing, but to go alone to England in secret and rescue
the Crown Prince. The four conspirators had already left our capital;
therefore I went in hot pursuit, travelling across Europe, and reaching
London on the day before we met. I managed to overtake them, and,
watching their movements, I travelled by the same train down to
Huntingdon. On arrival there, while they were bargaining with a fly-man
to take them on their fateful errand, I got into a cab and drove with
all speed out to Buckworth. I had been there before, and knew the place
well. I crossed the lawn, entered the drawing-room by the French window,
and found little Paul alone. The Latours were out, he said; so I induced
him to leave the place with me without the knowledge of the servants. I
desired to see the Latours, and also to watch the movements of the
assassins; therefore we hid in the wood close to the house at a spot
where I had once met Latour secretly with a message from Her Majesty,
who somehow mistrusted Latour's wife. In half an hour three of the men
arrived, and were met by Latour, who had returned almost at the same
moment. They entered, carrying some hand-baggage with them, and I was
compelled to remain in hiding, awaiting an opportunity to speak with
him. At half-past seven, however, to my great surprise I saw them slip
out one by one, and disappear into the wood close to where little Paul
and I were hiding in the undergrowth. Then, suspecting something was
wrong by the stealthiness of their movements, I crept across the grounds
and re-entered the drawing-room from the lawn, where, to my horror, I
found Latour and his wife lying dead. I saw that a tragedy had been
enacted, and, regaining the wood, hastened on with little Paul in the
opposite direction, until I came to the Great North Road, and there met
you driving your car. They had heard from Latour that the child had
wandered out somewhere, and were, I knew, scouring the country for him.
Only by your aid the Crown Prince was saved, and we came here into
hiding, the King sending my father to meet me and to live here as his
son's protector."
"But why did they kill the Latours?"
"It was part of the conspiracy. Latour, who had recently been back in
Bosnia, had, they discovered, given information to the chief of police
regarding a plot against the Queen, and they, the revolutionists, had
condemned both him and his wife to death."
"And the packet which they demanded of me?"
"It contains certain papers concerning the royal family of Bosnia,
secrets which the revolutionists desire to obtain and publish," she
explained. "The King, distrustful of those about him, gave the packet
into the hands of his faithful subject Latour, in England, and he, in
preference to putting it into a safe, which might attract the spies of
the conspirators, kept it in a small cavity behind the wainscoting in
the drawing-room at Buckworth--a spot which he showed me, so that if any
untoward event occurred I should at least know where the documents were
secreted. When I realised the terrible fate of the unfortunate Latour
and noticed the disordered state of the room and study beyond, I
suspected that search had been made for them, and going to the spot I
pressed the spring, and, finding them still safe, secured them. The
revolutionists undoubtedly saw us leaving the inn at Stilton together,
and believed that I had secured the documents as well as the boy, and
that I had probably, in my flight, handed them to you for safe keeping."
"And the assassins? What has become of them?"
"They returned to Bosnia when they had recovered from the wounds you
inflicted, but were at once arrested on information supplied by me, and
have all four been condemned to solitary confinement for life--a
punishment which is worse than death."
Since that evening I have been a frequent visitor at the Stefanovitchs',
who still live in Florence under the name of Darfour, and more than once
has the little Crown Prince thanked me. The pretty, dark-eyed Clotilde
and her father are quite popular in society, but no one dreams that
little Paul, who is so carefully guarded by the old General and his
trusty soldier-servant, is heir to a European throne, or that his life
was saved in curious circumstances by "the Count's chauffeur."